


Like Alcohol

by sobrecogimiento



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-24
Updated: 2011-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-18 14:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobrecogimiento/pseuds/sobrecogimiento
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean fucks up Sam's homework. Which of course leads to schmoop and porn. It's a logical outcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Alcohol

If it counts for anything, he'd known that he'd regret it in the morning. 

The alarm clock screams through his eardrums and cuts right through his skull, worsening the headache that was already at the edges of his consciousness in the six-a.m., half-asleep haze. Face still cemented to the pillow, Sam flails out with one arm, knocks the fucking clock off the windowsill and onto the floor, where it makes a little too much of a clatter. Upon wrenching himself up, Sam discovers he managed to knock the batteries to not-even-God-knows-where and probably also crack the cheap plastic, which is just fucking perfect, but seriously, at least the thing's shut up, and he can deal with the rest of it later. Groaning, Sam drags himself out of bed, freezing momentarily when his feet hit the cold tile, before continuing on to the bathroom. At the doorway, he stops and looks back at the bed, where Dean's still dead to the world. Half of Sam kind of hates him for being able to sleep through that, but mostly his heart just melts from seeing how from seeing how he's already curled into the warm space left by his brother's body. Sam reminds himself that not too long ago, Dean wouldn't have slept through that, would have jerked awake from the barest creak of floorboards, reminds himself to be grateful for what he has and what he no longer needs to deal with.

Cold water sputtering out of the showerhead wakes him up a little and mostly clears up the headache. The entire bathroom, and in reality half the apartment, is a mess of rust and a thousand different colonies of mold spores, but it's home and Sam loves it. Somehow, it's over, and they came out on the other side alive, and thinking back on it Sam's not entirely sure how they did it, or how big their role actually was, and he's since learned not to care. It's over, he's back in school, and Dean--Dean's  _happy._  He's got a steady, regular job at a garage, comes home every day sweaty and greasy and bitching to Sam about everything and everyone with a smile so big it looks like it's going to split his face open. And Sam's grateful. He's grateful he could give him that.

He stumbles back into the bedroom, locates some clothes and collapses into his desk chair once dressed, because it's the closest thing and sitting down seems like a pretty awesome idea. Absently, Sam flips through the sheets of his homework scattered across the desk and almost immediately regrets it.

"Dean," he says, repeats it louder when he gets no response.

Mumbling, his brother grunts himself awake. "What?"

Sam drops his head onto his arm. "Dean, why the  _hell_  did you write our names all over my economics homework?"

Dean sits up, covers falling to his hips, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Lemme see," he says. 

Obligingly, his brother crosses the room and sits on the bed, hands him the ruined papers. Dean's chest is littered with bite marks that Sam put there, and he's trying to stay vaguely pissed instead of extremely turned on. It's kind of half working.

"Oh!" Dean says, face lighting up. "Our initials are there already, so I just filled in the rest."

"You filled in--" Sam begins. "Dean, these are graphs ok? The S and D stand for supply and demand, not--oh, Jesus."

"Well, I was drunk!" Dean defends himself, injured look exaggerated to the point where it's getting ridiculous. "See?" He points to his chicken-scratch, sharp and painful contrast to Sam's painstakingly neat print. "This is my drunk handwriting.*

"Dean," his brother sighs in exasperation, rubbing his temples as the headache returns with a vengeance, "next time remind me not to let you get me drunk. Especially not on a school night. I mean, how the fuck do you recognise your own handwriting as drunk?" He flips through the packet, wincing at scribbled words and thanking God Dean stopped before he got to the wage and labour markets. He can just see "Winchester" and "Lawrence" scrawled across the page, and for Chrissakes, they have aliases now, out of necessity. 

"Wait." A slow, stupid grin spreads across Dean's face. "Does that mean you're supply and I'm demand? Dude, that's awesome!"

"Dean," Sam all-but-growls, look a blatant warning that he knows is hopeless to give.

Of course, Dean remains completely nonplussed, unaffected. "Why's it such a big deal?" he asks, and it's got to be the dumbest question of the year. 

Sam glares, wants to hit him or screw him or both. "Because it's a take-home test, Dean. I have to turn it in like, this afternoon. And since you wrote in pen, I have to explain to my professor that I have a drunken idiot for a boyfriend. Because," he says loudly, speaking over Dean's imminent protest, "as we've discussed, I am not mentioning you and the word 'brother' in the same damned paragraph to avoid us getting lynched."

Dean opens his mouth and shuts it, runs a hand over his hair, looks kind of really crestfallen and defeated, and Sam has to check his instincts, stop himself from comforting the idiot and telling him it's ok. He guesses Dean's like alcohol. Too much of either leaves him happy and stupid and indifferent to the part where he's getting a headache later. 

"Why're you even in--what's it?--business school, anyway?" Dean asks. "Thought you wanted to be a lawyer, Sammy."

Momentarily, Sam thinks of telling him that it's got nothing to do with anything, but it's probably not worth it, and in the end he just tells him the truth. "That's where the money is, Dean. Get in some big corporation, start out as a manager, move up to owning a few stores, go on from there. Retail or restaurants or something."

"Yeah?" Dean asks, grinning a little and too damned pretty for Sam to stay pissed. "What you gonna do with all that money?"

He's never told Dean this before, but now he kind of wants to, directs a gaze at his brother that's heated like fire and sees his eyes widen in response. "Get us a house," Sam says, pulling Dean forward by the back of his neck. "Somewhere nice. Not friggin' pissholes like we've been living in our entire goddamned lives. And"--he kisses him, lightly--"I'm gonna get you a garage. Big one." He sucks a wet trail down his jaw and neck. "Buy you vintage cars. So you can spend all day fixing them and blasting your stupid-ass mullet rock." Dean tries to protest at this affront to his music, breaks off in a gasp as Sam starts kissing down his chest. "Or," Sam says, "get you your own damned business if that's what you want."

"And bookshelves," Dean adds.

Sam lifts his head in confusion. "What?"

"I'm gonna make you bookshelves," he explains, lopsided grin full of ill-disguised affection. "And be nice to me, or I'll paint them pink and make you use them anyway."

Laughing, Sam pushes Dean back onto the pillow and kisses him, test falling to the floor, open to the part where Dean left off, shallow cat-scratch of a pen mark across the page, and really, Sam could care less. He's thinking about the first time they did this, Dean crawling into his bed the night before he left for college, face tear-stained as he kissed him and feverishly hot from crying. He remembers the next time, after the crossroads deal that still makes something in Sam break when he thinks of it, Dean's eyes blown glassy-wide with terror and desperation, the times they couldn't stop touching and the times between, when they'd yell words at themselves and each other in an effort to stop this, scared of the intensity, of what it meant and where it would lead them, scared that for once society was right. Words like  _brother_  and  _wrong,_  card houses that in the end fell to nothing and the inevitable conclusion and left them here. 

Eventually, Sam forces himself to pull back, panting. "You better get ready for work," he says reluctantly, palm open on his face and fingers spread across the back of his head.

"Sammy," Dean pouts, hand clamped around his arm. "C'mon, man, we got time. I know you don't go to class this early, and I'll drive you."

"For one thing," Sam says, trying and pretty much failing to ignore the heat pooling in his groin, "you'll barely get to work on time, if you do at all, and I've got to fix that mess you made." He indicates the packet.

It's working about as well as usual, which is to say that it's not. Dean's sucking on Sam's earlobe, sending all the blood in his upstairs brain running south like there's a race and someone's keeping time, Sam's giving in and pulling his closer, letting Dean unbutton his shirt, thinking that his economics test is a lost cause, probably going to cost him a letter grade. But Dean's tongue is in his mouth and Dean's hands are on his belt, and honestly, Sam doesn't give a rat's ass.

They saved the world, and for now the world can wait. 

~End


End file.
